


there's still a light in the house

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M, POV Martino Rametta, Pining, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 14:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: When Martino is seven, he moves out of his apartment building the same day Niccolò moves in, and they become friends for one fast afternoon.Since then, Nico’s held on to the memory and Marti’s held on to the feeling.





	there's still a light in the house

###### i. to understand

_Home_ and _maze of cardboard boxes_ are synonyms to Marti.

(He just learned that word, by the way. That and _antonym._ His homework has to do with both, but he hasn’t done it yet. The workbook is open over his knees, pencil in hand. Pages blank. He needs to come up with five different words for _happy.)_

Over the past week they’ve piled high against the walls, making their way inward like a hungry monster eating all of his toys.

He keeps bumping face-first into the stack blocking the hallway when he gets up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, the muscle memory to avoid them not quite cemented yet.

They’re moving tomorrow. At least that’s what his mom and dad say. Closer to the city center in a bigger apartment because their “family is growing” — whatever that means. Marti isn’t sure. He overheard his mom say it on the phone last week before he knew any of this was happening.

Besides moving, Marti’s also been informed that he won’t be going back to school with his friends. He’ll be going to a _new_ school with _new_ friends. (His mom was smiling when she told him this, so it must be a good thing.)

Oh well. He doesn’t like school now anyway. With ten days left it’s hard to think of anything besides summer, let alone his Italian homework. But Luca told Federica he wanted to marry Silvia at recess yesterday when he grows up, to which Marti responded he wanted to marry his friend Peccio. Now people make fun of him because _you can’t marry a boy, stupid._

No one ever told him that before. Now Peccio won’t talk to him.

He can’t stop thinking about it, curling the thin pages of his workbook between his fingers, doodling nonsense shapes in the margins where he is supposed to write his synonyms. He keeps sighing loud, half wanting his mom poking in and out of his room to notice and half wanting to dismiss her with a dramatic _nothing_ when she asks.

And she does ask.

With an equally distraught sigh that tapers off sweet. “What are you pouting about?”

And instead of telling her all _that_ — because he’s far too embarrassed and something tells him it’s not normal — he just stays silent and watches her drag empty boxes into his room.

This annoys her. “Well, I’m done with your attitude,” she hisses, shoveling the last of his things haphazardly into one of them. 

Marti tenses up, crosses his legs on his naked mattress while he drops his workbook and hugs an uncovered pillow.

She sounds mad, but she takes a deep breath and continues with a little less malice. Marti doesn’t know what _stress_ is, but it’s a word he’s heard a lot in passing the last few days.

“Why don’t you go see if Luca’s home?” She turns to him, a smile on her face. Hot and cold and back again aren’t unusual for her demeanor, but that must be how all moms with _stress_ are, Marti thinks. “I’m just going to pack the rest of your room. Be home for dinner — and don’t go outside! Come back if he’s not downstairs.” She waves him out.__

Marti gladly hops down from his bed, running through the hall and smacking, yet again, into the boxes outside of the bathroom.

“Oi!” He shouts, rubbing his nose with tears at the corner of his eyes even though it doesn’t hurt.

“Are you okay?” He hears his mom call, and he responds with a yelled, over-the-shoulder _yeah!_ before hurrying out the front door and running down the steps between the fourth and third-floor landing. 

It’s stuffy and humid in the stairwells: the windows are closed. Luca lives on the second floor; it’s not uncommon for them to drop by each other’s places unannounced, and by the time Marti gets down there his hair is sticking to his forehead.

Out of breath, he knocks on the door to apartment eight. Waits a few seconds, knocks again. Wiggles impatiently, knocks again. He really doesn’t want to go back and finish his homework.

Something gross twists inside Marti’s stomach after each failed knock. Hopefully, Luca will still talk to him after the recess incident. He just remembered.

But it’s apparent nobody is home. Maybe he’ll just wait for a while and see. He leans his back to the door and slumps down, sitting on the dirty tile of the hall with his knobby knees pulled up to his chin and his shorts bunching above them. Someone yesterday at school made a comment about how short they were, and now he’s in the habit of constantly pulling them down. He’s one of the taller boys in his year, and his mom keeps frustratedly mentioning how he won’t stop growing out of his clothes. 

He wishes Luca was home so they could play and so he could stop feeling bad about it. And everything else.

He knows his mom will call soon to check if Marti got there safely. But for now, he has a few minutes before she comes looking for him.

It’s much cooler down here. The shadows are long through the open window at the end of the hall — an orange tree peeking in from outside is sour with fruit, the saggy peels falling to the ground and making the air smell like citrus.

Marti’s fiddling with one of his untied shoelaces when he hears the door across the hall open, startling him.

“Why are you sitting there?” 

A head peeks around the corner of the jarred door. At least that’s what Marti thinks it is — it could very well be a talking dog with that mop of bushy black curls.

Marti stands up, not necessarily on guard but definitely wary. “How did you know I was sitting here?”

The possible dog opens the door fully, revealing that they are, actually, a human. Another boy in fact — maybe just a little older than Marti. Behind him, with the interior now in full view, Marti sees that his hallway is also a cluster of cardboard boxes.

“I was standing on a chair, looking through the peephole,” he smiles, pointing up to the little round glass of the door above his head. His head wiggles proudly.

“Why were you doing that?”

He purses his lips matter-of-factly. “I like to pretend I’m a spy.” 

Marti doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he sits down again and goes back to messing with his shoelace.

The boy doesn’t move. Marti can feel his eyes on him, just staring as he stands in the doorway. Maybe if he ignores him he’ll go away.

But he doesn’t. “Are you okay?”

That’s not what he expected. Marti feels his cheeks get hot. He hates pouting, but he doesn’t have a very good poker face. His mom always reminds him not to grimace if he doesn’t like his dad’s cooking. It doesn’t help in these situations, either — because no, he’s not okay. But he doesn’t want anybody else to know that. He barely knows it himself; it’s the first time he’s ever felt embarrassed and anxious and confused all at once.

He settles for just shrugging his shoulders. A big sigh through his nose. He can feel tears in his throat bubble up to his eyes, tightening his jaw on the way.

_Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry —_

But he’s an easy crier, so he does — mad at himself for it but unable to stop.

The boy across the hall steps out and closes the front door behind him. He rests his hands awkwardly on the small of his back and rocks on the balls of his feet, clearly uncomfortable. Looking one way down the hall and then the other, he asks: “Do you want me to go get your mom?”

Marti shakes his head immediately. “No. No.”

He switches gears. “Do you want a chocolate cookie?”

Marti looks up at him — his messy black hair and his goofy smile and his huge teeth. He must have his adult ones already, and suddenly Marti feels self-conscious about his missing front one. 

“What?” Marti sniffles.

Rifling through his pockets, he produces a loose chocolate cookie and holds it up in the air like a prize. He walks forward and extends his arm, holding it right in front of Marti’s face. “Here. I was saving it for later, but you can have it.”

Hesitantly, Marti takes it. Before helping himself to a bite, though, he breaks it in half and hands part of it back. “We can both have it,” he decides, wiping a tear off his cheek with the back of his hand. His mom always taught him to share.

Also, if it’s poisoned, Marti will wait for him to take a bite first. Because she also taught him to never take food from strangers.

The other boy beams, sitting down across from Marti in the middle of the hallway and eating the cookie half in one bite.

Okay, it’s safe.

“They’re good,” he says with a full mouth, wiping his hands on his shirt. “The neighbors made them, we just moved in. My mom said I could have one but I took two.”

Marti takes a bite. He’s right, it is good.

“So why are you crying?”

Marti looks down, picks at the hem of his shorts. Gravity takes a stale tear stuck at the corner of his eye and pulls it down, splotting the fabric with a small wet dot. Suddenly the cookie doesn’t taste like anything. “Recess,” is all he says.

“Oh, I love recess!”

Marti can’t match his enthusiasm. “Yesterday everyone laughed at me because I said I wanted to marry my friend.” When he looks up to gauge a reaction, he barely sees the boy’s eyebrows crinkle under all that hair.

“Why would they do that?”

“Because my friend is a boy,” he grumbles. The tears well up again. He sniffles. Tries to be quiet about it.

The boy across from him sits up straighter. “So?” He asks it matter-of-factly, almost confused.

“So they told me I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

All of Marti’s thoughts halt. He never took the time to ask himself that, and suddenly he doesn’t have an answer. They just said so. He took it at face value.

He’s honest about that. “I don’t know, that’s just what they said.”

“Well,” the boy huffs, slouching back down again. “That’s dumb. I’ve never heard of that rule.”

Through another sniffle, Marti finds himself in a half-smile. Finally, someone who understands — who doesn’t think he’s stupid for not knowing. 

“Yeah, me neither.” Marti finishes his cookie, the chocolate flavor coming back. “But…” he trails. “Now my friend won’t talk to me.”

“Because he doesn’t want to marry you?”

Looking down, Marti just shrugs his shoulders again. 

“I’ll marry you.”

He says it so fast Marti’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Yeah!” He stands, offering a hand but not waiting for Marti, grabbing it anyway and hoisting him up. “We can get married.” 

Searching Marti’s face for an answer, he hasn’t let go of his hand. Covered in cookie crumbs. Marti looks down at them, intertwined, and it doesn’t put him off in the slightest.

“I mean, if you want to.”

“Okay,” Marti agrees, his eyes still wet and heavy but his heart a little lighter. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I should probably know your name, then.”

Right. “Martino,” he offers, wiping his face.

“Niccolò.”

They both smile. Clasped hands still together between them. Marti’s face is hot, and he uses his free one to pull his shorts down again.

Marti’s been to a wedding once. He remembers sitting on his mom’s lap in a church pew and that’s about it. “What do we do?”

Niccolò purses his lips, looks up to the ceiling like he’s thinking. “I think we need rings? But I don’t have anything like that.”

Marti tilts his head to the side. “We can just pretend.”

“Wait!” Niccolò lets go of his hand and rummages in his pocket again, this time producing an uncapped red marker. Marti hopes it didn’t touch the cookie. “We can just draw them on. Here, you go first.” He hands the marker to Marti and extends his arm, bends his wrist.

Marti laughs to himself, then steadies Niccolò’s hand in his own grip and goes for the first finger.

“No, no,” Nico says. Not scolding, but more instructional. “I think it’s this one.” He wiggles the finger next to his pinky.

Marti hums like he understands even though he doesn’t and draws a shaky circle around the finger, just above the knuckle. He has to bend Niccolò’s wrist about to get all the angles. Has to go over the lines a few times because his hand is sweaty. With a satisfied nod, he’s done.

He hands the marker back over to Niccolò, who takes his hand and does the same: much neater — a nice thick red band.

Marti holds his hand out in front of him to examine it, smiling. “Now what?”

Niccolò looks back up at the ceiling, all the curls on top of his head falling away from his face. “I think we kiss?” He whispers it, nervous but still bright.

Marti’s eyes go wide. “I thought kissing made you pregnant.” 

At least that’s what Luca told him.

Niccolò’s eyes go even wider. “Oh no. We don’t want that, then. Cheek kisses?”

Marti pretends to ponder. No, that’s what his mom does before bed. “How about nose kisses,” he offers.

Unprompted, Niccolò leans in and kisses the tip of Marti’s nose in a sloppy squish.

It all happens so fast, Marti’s stomach is spinning and he’s not really sure why. He tries not to throw up, tries not to topple over. 

But Niccolò’s face is still close, waiting for the return with a beaming smile and those big goofy teeth. So Marti quickly leans up to kiss his nose with eyes smushed shut. He’s a bit taller than him — has to stand on his tiptoes. The skin and cartilage squish under his lips, feels weird. But also nice. 

Marti steps back, looking at his untied shoelace on the floor because if he looks at Niccolò’s smile again, throwing up or falling over will surely happen.

“So we’re married now?” The tips of his ears sting. He’s smiling. He’s completely forgotten about recess yesterday, about moving, about his mom, about his homework. 

_He’s happy._ (Okay, now he’s thinking about his homework again.)

“Almost. We have to go on a honeymoon now.”

Mari looks up, eyebrows uneven. “What’s that?”

“It’s when you go to Bora Bora.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

Niccolò laughs. “I don’t either. We could just go outside?” He extends his hand. 

Marti takes it and nods, letting Niccolò drag him down to the first floor and out the door, his eyes almost dry but his nose still a bit runny.

The sun is in that weird middle area of the sky — still above the buildings and the trees but low enough to make the air pink and cool. There’s a courtyard with some grass on the corner behind the building they head for, picking up sticks and walking in circles; throwing them at each other. Marti can smell the orange tree just around the corner stronger here.

“Are you still sad?” Niccolò asks him, studying his puffy eyes.

Marti looks down at the red circle around his finger, already a little smudged. But that’s okay. He nods enthusiastically, pulls his shorts down. “No. I’m happy.”

Niccolò points a stick he found at Marti like a wizard wand, swishing it around. “Me too.”

“Wait,” Marti stops. “Do you know another word for happy?”

Niccolò makes a thinking sound, pushing his pointer finger against his top lip. “Ecstatic?” He suggests it in English, at least that Marti recognizes. 

But he tilts his head to the side, indicating he’s still not sure.

“Sorry, I just moved from London —”

“Martino!”

Marti’s head snaps up at the sound of his mother’s voice, four stories high as she leans over the balcony railing out the kitchen and down at them.

“What did I tell you about going outside?”

Marti knows she doesn’t expect an answer, but she _does_ expect him to start sprinting up the stairs. She’ll be counting to three soon if he doesn’t get moving and that means trouble.

He looks over his shoulder back at Niccolò — who has a worried frown like he might get in trouble too — and tries to say goodbye with his eyes. 

“One…!”

Snapping his attention back up at his mom, Marti gapes his mouth and immediately shuts it. He knows he’s going to get a punishment for his attitude, for being outside when she said no. 

He only has the time to wave goodbye to Niccolò as he starts running — an echoing _two…!_ in his ears — and Niccolò returns it half-heartedly with a fallen face: not sad, just confused. 

No words come out — Marti can’t think of any, which isn’t helpful for the homework he needs to finish as soon as he gets back inside.

The only word he can remember is _ecstatic,_ echoing over and over and over again in his head, which he writes down horribly misspelled in his workbook.

###### ii. snapshots

Summer is gone; the afternoon heat doesn’t sting anymore and the evening is quick to come. Maybe a good thing, it wasn’t very fun — no beach, no football, no Luca or Peccio. (And no Niccolò — although Marti has forgotten his name by now but definitely not that black mop of hair, the easiness it was to be friends for the afternoon, their red marker rings.) Just lots of unpacking boxes and sitting inside.

Doing what Marti’s doing now, slumped up against the door in the narrow hallway outside his parents’ new room and knocking softly by the handle, twisting it to no avail.

He wrinkles his nose, maybe to keep a bored tear in or maybe because he’s not used to the smell.

“Mom?”

“Martino.” His dad shuffles around the corner in a little half run, scooping him up by the armpits. He only uses his full name when he’s in trouble, but the tone doesn’t make Marti think otherwise. “I told you to leave your mom alone.”

“Is she going to take me to school tomorrow?”

It’s his first day. She promised him.

“No, Marti. I will.” His voice is softer, back to his shortened name. He sits Marti on the couch in the living room and joins him.

Marti just stares down the hallway, eyes on the door his mom is behind. He hasn’t seen her at all today. And it’s Sunday. Normally they’d have taken a walk or at least gone to the park — all three of them. Stopped for gelato, made their way to the market to get something to make a nice dinner. He likes to help — wash the vegetables and mix the sauce with a whisk. But his number one job, according to his mom, is taste-tester. She jokes that his taste buds haven’t been ruined by cigarettes, then usually throws a pursed but unresentful smile towards his dad smoking one on the balcony before she lights up and joins him. Helps her not add too much salt, she says. Followed by _you’re not allowed to smoke when you get older._

But his dad had to work — shut in his office and peeking into Marti’s room every hour or two with an equally patronizing and dismal half-smile.

“Hey.” His dad puts his arm around Marti’s shoulders and pulls him closer, rocking them. “We can order a pizza...?” He trails, half a question with raised eyebrows like he’s trying to make up for it. “And eat it here, on the couch? And watch the Roma versus Liverpool game? Hm? Sound good?”

Marti sighs. Nods. It’s better than nothing. He can’t put his finger on exactly what’s wrong, but he knows it’s something judging by the way his parents have been acting.

The silence. The tiptoeing. The long days where it seems like they’ve forgotten about him entirely, bandaged with take-out dinners and tv instead of asking him what he wants.

To which he’d respond with just about anything else. Maybe to go swimming. To see Luca.

Marti looks down at his finger, the red marker ring long gone. 

“Okay.”

• • •

“No, _you_ ask him!”

Marti’s view of the dirt gets obstructed by a shadow.

This is how he’s spent his first three recess periods: sitting on the ground by the fence and drawing shapes in the sandy gravel with a stick.

Yesterday a red-haired girl came up to him and asked if he would like to play “dolphins” with her and her friends, but he politely declined. Boys can’t marry boys and they also probably can’t play dolphins with girls. At least he thinks so, but he’s not going to make a mistake like that again. Not before he even makes a friend.

“Fine!” The shadow says over his shoulder, directed at another boy behind him. 

Marti looks up. 

He’s got curly hair. Blue eyes. A gap in his front teeth to rival Marti’s. (His missing front one is finally starting to grow back in).

“Erm,” he scratches the back of his head. “Do you want to play football with us? We need a goalie.”

Marti’s heart kickstarts. “Yeah!” He agrees quickly, way too excited to be cool. “But I don’t want to be goalie.” He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth — keeping himself from literally covering it like he’s too late to keep them from flying out. He’s already picturing the two boys shrugging their shoulders and walking away without him. 

The farther one scoffs. But not at Marti — at his friend. “Told you. No one ever does. We should all just switch.”

“I’ll go first,” Marti offers, trying to recover. 

The curly-haired boy in front of him beams and offers a hand to lift Marti up. “Cool. I’m Giovanni.”

“Elia,” the other one interjects, waving a hand. 

Marti brushes the dirt off his shorts after he stands, letting go of Giovanni’s hand. He pulls them down.

“Are you any good?” Elia asks, skeptical. Raising an eyebrow as they all start walking towards the grassy area where everyone else is waiting and kicking the ball back and forth. 

Giovanni slaps him on the side of the neck. “He’s probably better than you. Don’t scare him off, idiot.”

Marti doesn’t even object — can barely speak through the big smile on his face.

• • •

Marti doesn’t like to brag, but he pats himself on the back for being assertive after four consecutive games as goalie before finally piping up to make Elia switch with him. 

And since then, Elia always offers to play goalie; nothing can get past him and he loves it. Marti likes to remind him — of them all — of that: that every time Elia blocks a shot they should actually be thanking _him._

It’s usually met with a playful _fuck off:_ curses on the pitch they wouldn’t dare utter in front of their mothers, still a bit too young to sound natural coming from their mouths. A little too staged, a little too cool. Like they’re test-driving what they think being a teenager is like now that they can finally wear the title.

Primary school recess turned into secondary school private league and practice turned into hanging out at Elia’s dad’s on the weekend. Gio and Elia quickly adopted Marti that day on the playground and never let him go. 

And thank god for that. Without them, Marti might have noticed his dad working more. His mom crying more. Might’ve forgotten to forget there was a “growing family” that never grew at all. 

Maybe he’d have noticed, throughout the years, that it was actually shrinking. 

Not physically, but somewhere inside.

“You know who’s cute?” Gio’s taking his shoes off, dropping his backpack and his gym bag to the floor by the front door. 

The boys follow suit behind him, an after practice ritual. They’re finally old enough to be trusted walking back to Gio’s place when it’s over — sweaty and out of breath but insistent on the responsibility. It’s lame to be picked up by your parents on the pitch. Much less lame to have your peers watch you walk away like you own the streets of Rome.

Marti’s never been the cool kid. But with Gio and Elia he certainly feels like one. 

Elia grunts, a response to Gio’s question. 

Marti smells garlic and onion coming from the kitchen they pass on the way to Gio’s room, and Gio shuts the door behind them and looks around like his parents might hear. “Eva,” he whispers, raising his eyebrows like he’s letting them in on the juiciest secret in the universe. 

Elia nods, flopping onto the bed. “Canegallo has the hots for her too. You pervs and your redheads.”

“If that were the case, Marti would be the most popular guy in our year.”

Marti snorts and takes a seat next to Elia.

“She’s cute, right?” Gio looks over at him, hopeful.

Those blue eyes sparkle, and Marti kind of hates it. Something green in his stomach twists, and he’s too naive to know that it’s jealousy. Mainly because his immediate task is to answer the question, and the panic of that overrides the brief sickness he feels. 

He’s literally never thought about it before. Eva is just… Eva. The fact that two guys, including his best friend, are interested in her shocks Marti, to be frank. And if he tries to focus — remember her hair and her lips and her figure — then no, she’s no cuter than Eleonora or Sana or any other girl in their class for that matter. Marti isn’t interested in any of them.

But he’s not going to dismiss his friend like that. 

“Yeah,” Marti fakes. Well enough to make Gio smile brighter. He looks like he’s about to say something, but is cut off by the front door buzzer. 

“That’s probably my dad.” Elia rocks his legs to get off the bed and stand, heading out the door with a salute. “See you tomorrow.”

Marti and Gio both mumble goodbyes mixed with insults that turn into laughs, and Elia opens the door again after he’s closed it behind him to give them the finger.

It’s only after they’ve calmed down — combined with the loss of contact — that Marti realizes Gio’s hand has been on his knee. 

Which is normal enough. But it’s the first time he’s aware of it as something more than…

More than —

He doesn’t know. He shakes the feeling off before giving himself time to muddle it over. 

Gio’s mom pokes her head in the room, the scent of dinner wafting in behind her. Her eyes widen at the sight of Marti still here. 

“Oh!” She pipes up. “Marti, honey, are your parents coming?”

He looks around, mouth lopsided and pursed. “Er, they should be…”

“Would you like to call them?”

With a nod, Marti hops off the bed and follows her into the kitchen, grabbing the landline being held out to him. Old school — still with coiled cord. The dial tone rings in his ear before he starts pushing the clear yellowed buttons. 

Gio bounces on the balls of his feet behind him. On the third ring, Marti’s eyes start wandering towards the stove. Chicken piccata. His stomach growls. 

Five rings now. Six. Seven. And finally, the answering machine. 

“They didn’t answer…” he mumbles, ashamed, handing the phone back to her. 

“Maybe they’re on their way,” she offers brightly. “You can sit and eat with us while you wait?”

Marti looks to Gio, who perks up at the idea. A good sign, so he nods. “Thank you.” 

It feels like pity, and he thinks on both ends they know it.

Because no matter how good dinner smells, it now tastes like nothing; because Gio’s dad offers Marti a ride home after dessert all too calmly, like there’s no need to worry about Marti’s parents — if they’re okay; because the one Marti knows they’re worried about is right here.

The car ride home isn’t more than five blocks — if it were daylight he’d just walk by himself. If his parents came, they most likely would have walked, too. 

It’s probably the conscience of a wary parent that fills the journey with small talk about football and school so no one realizes just how fast it goes. Just how close they are. 

Inside, Marti waves goodbye to Gio and his dad from the balcony in the kitchen, and they drive off knowing he’s safe. 

His dad isn’t home. His mom is sleeping.

• • •

Girls.

It’s all they ever talk about. And by they, Marti means Gio and Elia and Luca, who found his way back to Marti when their high schools conjoined.

Personally, he’s said about four words on the subject.

“Hey.”

“Hey, little koala.”

It takes every ounce of self-control to not grimace overdramatically. Both at the pet name and at Gio and Eva exchanging a long, sloppy kiss in the courtyard after school. It’s been four months and the PDA has only increased.

Watching it makes Marti’s stomach burn. He has the weird urge to interrupt them, but fights it as well as he can. He’s ashamed to admit he’s broken up a kiss or two on various occasions. (Innocently enough — just don’t ask his subconscious about it.)

The only solace Marti gets is at least Elia is rolling his eyes, too. 

But he’s no better. The level of detail he gets into when relaying his sexcapades is like reading the transcript of a porno. Luca only eggs him on.

It makes Marti tune out. But without the sour feeling. He tells himself listening is better than watching — it’s a lot easier to hide wandering off in his thoughts than it is to avoid the Gio and Eva show. 

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” Eva practically sings, hanging off of Gio with her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

He glances to Elia quickly, his lower lip jutting down at the side with wide, panicked eyes. Whatever tomorrow is, Gio’s clearly forgotten.

The only response Elia is mature enough to shoot back is a snicker. 

“Um, yeah,” Gio nods his head, playing along. “Super excited.”

“Great! I’ll be at yours the morning around nine and we can go to Termini together.” She pecks him swiftly on the lips several times — a few on his cheeks, too — before checking the phone buzzing in her pocket. “I’m late to meet Ele. Bye!”

Another kiss. Marti legitimately feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Bro,” Gio starts laughing, looking dumbfounded between the boys. “I have _no_ idea what she’s talking about.”

“You know _we,”_ Elia signals, circling his hand between the three of them, “were supposed to go to the Apparat concert tomorrow, right?” He looks pissed. 

Gio looks over at Marti, face falling. _“Fuck.”_ He tips his head back, both hands dragging down his cheeks and catching on his lower eyelids. He slaps himself twice on the face with his palms and then turns and darts in the direction Eva went. 

She didn’t make it too far — Marti sees Gio catch up with her across the street on the far side of the courtyard. Sees her eyes narrow, sees her arms cross. And then sees her start to yell — sees Gio yell back.

He feels like a piece of shit for smiling; like a toddler for needing to bite back the urge to stick his tongue out at her when she turns and gestures over to them. 

But it’s the first time Gio’s picked them — picked _him_ — over Eva.

• • •

Marti quietly and clumsily sticks his key into the lock, shushing Gio beside him with a giggle. They left Chicco’s party around two, but who knows what time it is now after the bus, pizza, and a stop at the late-night corner-mart. Too late for Marti to come home still tipsy, that’s for sure. 

But no one will know. That’s why Gio is with him, because his parents will actually be around to care if he came home like this. 

They shuck their shoes off after a few failed attempts to keep their balance, holding on to each other so they don’t fall over. It’s the first time in a long time it’s been just the two of them. No Eva. No Elia. No Luca. Just them. 

Marti wonders if Gio’s thinking about that fact even half as much as he is. 

Most likely not. 

In a forgotten corner of Marti’s mind — one that he doesn’t tend to very often — the word _crush_ is unavoidable. He’d trip over it trying to organize it. 

It took a while to realize, to accept. And even then he doesn’t let himself think about it very often. Which proves to be quite difficult, since he thinks about Gio all the time. 

That word. _Gay._

He watches gay porn but he’s not _gay._ He likes a boy but he’s not _gay._ Well, not _gay_ gay. 

Even this is just a lot to unpack. It’s beyond the point of confusion, too. He’s not confused — he knows what he likes, what he is. Tested it out, too: kissed Covitti and Polidorio and l’Argentina. Left the boys absolutely reeling at that one. Gio might be with Eva, but even that left him gape-mouthed with a little jealousy — and Marti twisted it around in his mind enough to feel fake validation (and even reciprocation) for his feelings. 

Envy on the other end tastes quite nice. But not for long, and it leaves a bitter flavor, anyway. 

Girls like him. He doesn’t like girls. It’s like cramming two puzzle pieces together you know aren’t going to fit. So for the most part, he’s stopped trying. 

He’ll fall asleep next to Gio in his bed and feel bad about it in the morning. It’s tomorrow’s problem. He’s already stepping down the hall towards the bathroom, unbuttoning his pants to take a piss. 

The bedroom door to his parent’s room is shut, so it surprises Marti to hear the lock on the front door he just shut a minute ago click open again behind him. Both he and Gio freeze, look at each other. 

It’s Marti’s dad. Quiet. Tiptoeing. Maybe wanting to be caught less than the boys do. It’s not until he uses the flashlight on his phone to help hang up his coat that he spots them, stopping in his tracks like a deer caught in his own headlight.

He clutches his chest like they just gave him a heart attack, relaxing when he realizes who it is. “Jesus,” he whispers, shaking his head and almost laughing with relief. “What are you boys doing?”

Marti may as well ask him the same.

The entryway reeks of flowery perfume. There’s a red lipstick smudge on his neck under the collar of his shirt: the first three buttons undone.

• • •

It happens when Marti is seventeen. The minute summer break begins, as if it was planned. 

In hindsight, it probably was.

Marti sits on the couch with his mother, practically a stranger to him now. It’s been an uncomfortable three days as his dad packs his things, moving about like a dog with his tail between his legs. A guest who unwelcomed himself.

It places an unusual amount of blame on Marti, who wonders if he bit his tongue for too long. Who wonders if he should help his dad or not. If he should go with him. 

But he didn’t offer. And even if he did, well, fuck him.

There are boxes still by the door he has yet to come and collect. Marti hates them, is always surrounded by fucking boxes.

It’s making this conversation that much harder. 

“Are you okay?” He asks his mom, voice croaking because it’s the first thing he’s said all day. It’s not meant to be nice: he asks because no one has asked him. It’s a dumb question from thought to delivery he already knows the answer to. 

She says nothing, just twirls her thumbs in her lap. Still in her pajamas. It’s almost noon. 

He doesn’t want to be frustrated, but if he’s not he’ll just end up being sad.

“I’m doing great, by the way.” He storms off without looking at her reaction, slamming the front door behind him so loud he winces. So loud the silence that follows is even more resounding. He slumps his back against it and debates apologizing. 

It’s not her fault. 

But if he speaks he might start crying, the hot tightness in his chin and jaw already a likely indicator. 

There are a dozen unanswered messages from Gio on his phone, wondering where he is. Marti still hasn’t told him anything. 

He feels sick that, after reading, he breathes a sigh of relief. And, to further fuel the illness, his first unfiltered thought is that ignoring Gio (however unintentional) gets a reaction out of him. Gets his time, his attention. Like a loaded gun Marti now has whenever he needs him.

Which skews towards always, but that’s unrealistic. At least his head isn’t so far in the clouds he can remember that.

The last one sticks out rather poignantly, makes his chest ache:

> **GIO**  
do you need me?

Marti goes to his house without even checking if he’s there. He’s welcomed with a hug to rival all others as soon as Gio sees his face. 

And the tears fall, finally, for the first time in these three days. Against Gio’s shoulder, bleeding into his sweater. He waits patiently for Marti to calm down, not daring to let him go. 

His dad is gone. 

His mom is helpless. 

Gio’s fingers rake through his unwashed curls. 

Everything is a mess.

• • •

Marti doesn’t know how he ended up here.

Well, he does, but if you relayed the steps back to him he probably wouldn’t believe you.

There’s a drink in his hand and he’s sitting next to a guy with bleach blonde hair along gay street that he met on Grindr. 

Technically, he’s on a date. 

So, yeah. The steps are a bit blurry.

But it stopped being a date about two sentences ago when Filippo asked: “so who is he?”

Marti raises his eyebrows, confused. “Who?” And although he could say he’s genuinely confused, the pretenses and the tone of the question bring one specific person to mind.

Filippo doesn’t buy it for a minute. “This guy you’re into.” He says it playful, light. Almost apprehensive but definitely too confident to be suspicious. Marti feels their knees knock together like a prompt, side by side on the ledge with the orange glow of the Colosseum to their right.

He’s walked down this street a million times during the day and never once gave it a second glance. Amazing how in its foreign absence of light, and, too, with a stranger — Marti feels safest slipping the one secret he’s never told anyone.

After he works up the courage, of course. 

Marti just purses his lips and looks down into his drink, smooths his thumb up the sweaty ridges of the plastic cup. Vodka and orange juice — the citrus smell is nostalgic, but he can’t quite remember why.

Filippo sighs when he doesn’t reply. “I can _tell._ And don’t worry —” he waves his hand, says it like he's interrupting himself, “I’m not into it either. Your picture was deceiving — you have red hair and I am _not_ into redheads.” He moves to ruffle the curls on Marti’s forehead.

It’s a joke, probably. Marti’s relieved this isn’t going anywhere, and that his failed attempt to at least try and get over his unrequited crush is not a total waste of time. This is the best-case scenario, actually. 

Filippo is nice, but Marti just isn’t ready. He offers his best, forced laugh and takes a long pause and a deep breath before answering. “His name is Gio.” 

God, his name still sounds so forbidden every time he says it to someone else.

Filippo looks at him like he’s waiting for him to elaborate, then lightly slaps Marti’s upper arm with the back of his hand when he doesn’t. “And? What? Did he break your heart, cheat on you? What did he do, tell me. I’ll go beat him up if I have to.”

“No, no,” Marti laughs at himself for partly wishing that were true, because that means they would have been something in the first place. “He’s not into me. Never will be.”

Filippo’s face softens, an expression Marti hasn’t seen from him yet. “Honey,” he sympathizes, turning his hand to grip Marti’s shoulder instead and squeezes. “How long?”

Marti laughs at himself again, this time for being so stupid when he realizes. At least Filippo is forcing him to look at the picture holistically, which might be the first step of moving forward, moving on. 

“Years,” he nods. Feeling so silly.

“Baby,” Filippo sighs, “can I offer some advice?”

It takes Marti all the self restraint he’s got to simply nod instead of blurting out _please._

“Okay,” Filippo turns to him, crossing his legs at the knee. “You’re… friends, right?”

Marti nods again.

Filippo raises his eyebrows with a little wince. “Best friends?”

Another nod.

He sighs through a pinched mouth like this news is a hard pill to swallow. “It’s hard, I know — believe me, I know.” Voice slow, quieter now. 

Marti can tell he’s had this speech ready to go, that he’s thought about it before. Or maybe that he’s been here before, which Marti hates to admit is weirdly comforting. 

“And it’s just... so much harder because the easiest way to get over someone is to cut them out of your life, right? Stop talking to them, stop seeing them and then boom,” Filippo claps his hands. “Soon time will take over in the best way — first you can’t go a minute without thinking of them. And then an hour. And then a day and then a week and soon you’ll look back and months will have passed and you realize, fuck yeah, you haven’t thought about them at all. But when you can’t do that, you have to keep doing what you’re doing now.”

Marti snorts, fond. “And what am I doing now?”

“You have to try and find someone else.”

_Try_ being the keyword, Marti realizes. Because for people like him and people like Fili, meet-cutes and fairy-tale romances and best-friends-to-lovers are burdened with second-guesses that need transparent intentions. The chance Marti will fall in love with someone he didn’t meet with the objective to love — and have that love reciprocated — is slim.

“And even just when you start trying, time will still take over. And you won’t feel the hurt around them anymore.” Fili squeezes Marti’s shoulder again, shakes it. “Think of it in fractions — or percentages. Today, you love him one-hundred percent. Tomorrow, now that you’ve at least downloaded Grindr,” he laughs, “that you’ve at least gone on one failed date of probably many — you know. You know you need to move on. And you’ll wake up tomorrow and love him ninety-nine point nine percent.”

“Sounds like a huge improvement,” Marti huffs, ready to cry. But in relief.

It feels good to talk to someone who just _gets it._

“But,” Filippo holds a finger up. “You keep going one day at a time, and sooner than you think, you wake up and it’s fifty percent. And then thirty. And then ten. And maybe it never goes away completely — maybe it hovers around five or six. But by then that feels like nothing.”

Marti blinks back some wetness in his eyes, feels his jaw get tight as it fights the tears back down his throat. But when he looks back up at Filippo, he can’t hide it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, little angel.” Fili scoots closer to him, sliding the hand on his shoulder to the far one and bringing Marti in near. “You are very cute, you’ll have no problems. And maybe if those curls were brunette we’d be making out by now.”

Another joke, and Marti laughs genuinely this time. “But I’m not into blondes.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Fili snaps. “You have to be nice to your new wingman.”

Marti raises his eyebrows. “Wingman?”

“You think I’m going to let you move on alone now? Set you free into the wild with only my genius advice? No, no no,” he tsks. “You’re stuck with my help, I’m afraid.”

Marti rolls his eyes and tries to detach himself, although Filippo won’t let him. And maybe that’s for the best, maybe he should just succumb. Stop trapping himself in all these boxes for just a second, in a space that’s both new and safe.

With a sigh, Marti leans his head on his shoulder, and Fili’s hand comes up to pat his temple. 

“This feeling won’t last forever.”

• • •

The stove hisses on like it hasn’t been used in a month.

Because it hasn’t.

The flame crackles desperately, trying to hang on to the gas — which has been on for so long without a light the whole kitchen smells like it’s about to explode (...Marti’s worried it might...) — then gives up.

But the amount of pizza al taglio he’s eaten these past few weeks is borderline embarrassing — he’s concerned his mom might be eating even poorer. So he finally went to the grocery store.

He tries again, holding the lighter under the burner until the blue flare singes his fingertips. Got it.

Boil the water, let the salt dissolve, add the pasta. His sous-chef days next to his mom are a distant memory, but at least he remembers how to do that. Cook the pasta, add the sauce. He didn’t bother to make it — just opens the jar. This part is common sense, although he could have drained it a minute sooner. The gemelli are just a bit too squishy.

A steaming plate in each hand clink gently on the glass table right when the door opens, like clockwork. It’s been literal years since he’s eaten at home anywhere besides the couch or his bedroom.

Marti can hear his mom inhale sharply before he turns around to see her, something resembling a smile on her face. She drops her bags, shrugs her coat off her shoulders.

“What’s this?”

“I made pesto,” Marti waves off, sitting down in front of his plate without motioning for his mom to follow. It’s clear the other one is for her.

Lately she’s like a skittish cat — one wrong move and she darts back under the bed. But a young cat, a curious cat. Marti actually sees her move about the house these days.

He hates to say maybe their misfortune was for the best. But, well. Maybe.

Hesitantly, she sits down across from him and picks up her fork, stirring the pasta so more steam rises.

“Did you poison it?”

That about makes Marti spit out his bite. Shaking his head, he tries to swallow without choking so he can answer her through a laugh. “No, ma. What?”

“I’m just kidding.” She raises an eyebrow before eating a forkful. Chewing carefully, thinking. Bobbing her head to the side. “You could have drained the pasta just —”

“— Just a minute sooner,” Marti agrees with a snort, hanging his head in mock shame. When he looks back up at her, they’re both smiling. “Yeah, I know.”

###### iii. to be understood

> **FILIPPO:**  
how are we feeling today?  
90%?  
80%?
> 
> **MARTINO:**  
haha  
i think it’s lower than that
> 
> **FILIPPO:**  
see? told you it would get better  
you just have to keep putting yourself out there 😊  
but let me cheer you up  
come out with me tonight and meet some of my friends

Marti doesn’t fight it, but he also knows Filippo won’t take no for an answer. He’s been dragged to gay street more times than he can count on one hand since they’ve met to know that.

And that’s fine. Filippo is right — the outlet helps. Especially since he’s still not out to some people close to him. 

Being cramped up in a little box with the wrong label is exhausting.

But it’s how he finds himself walking down Via San Giovanni in Laterano with dare he say a spring in his step. Towards a place and to a person where a secret part of him feels understood.

The sun has just set, the sky a hazy purple with the glowing lights from the Colosseum looming over. And it’s crowded for a weeknight. Marti has to elbow his way between people around the street, catching on to loud tourist conversations and avoiding flying, animated hands. 

Eventually Marti spots Filippo’s new pink hair — he’s double-fisting two drinks. Both vodka orange juice. When Marti approaches him on the left, one is being slipped into his hand with a casual _hey_ before Filippo interrupts the conversation in their small circle of people for a quick introduction.

“Eh, Marti, this is Mateo, Elisa, Rosa, and Nico.” He points haphazardly between them all so Marti’s not one-hundred percent sure who is who. He gestures vaguely back to him. “And everyone, Marti.”

“Hey.” Marti holds up his free hand and dips his head with a pursed, excited smile. It’s met with an equally warm, casual greeting back to him.

“We’re talking about our first crushes,” Elisa — at least who Marti thinks is Elisa — fills him in.

Filippo winces with a side-mouthed _sorry_ shot in his direction. A tender subject, he knows.

But Marti just elbows his ribs and takes an extensive swig from his drink, unbothered. He’s just glad to be out.

“— Anyway,” Nico (Marti thinks) continues after a beat of silence following his arrival. Tipped head, a little flustered smile. He says it like he doesn’t want to interrupt. 

He’s cute. Small, wild. Marti has a little trouble hearing him over the noise of the street, but really doesn’t mind just settling for watching his lips move. 

His drink is strong. That one full gulp felt like taking a shot. But he’s in no headspace to complain.

“— So, eight-year-old-me proposes that _we_ get married instead —” Nico’s smooth voice carries. He’s standing right next to Marti in their circle, and whenever he turns his head towards him it’s finally loud enough for Marti to string the words together coherently. It’s low, deep. Fast and punctuated with breathy laughs. Marti wonders how old he is. Can’t be much older than himself.

Listening, he takes another drink, that citron aroma bringing with it again something wistful he still can’t place. Maybe because the last time he was drinking it a month ago he was here with Fili. In the same surroundings, being listened to and listening.

He felt understood — for almost the first time, he realizes, only rivaling that one summer evening when he was a kid. When again, he turned to another stranger. 

If he closes his eyes and takes another sip, he can remember the orange tree peeking in the open window outside of his old apartment, where he sat on the floor outside of Luca’s and cried because his friends laughed at him. But that stranger took the time to understand —

“We even drew rings on each other with marker, and then —”

Marti literally drops his drink, the almost empty cup bumping hollow on the cobblestones beneath.

A stammered pause. “I think that was me,” he blurts when the attention turns to him. But everyone soon blurs in his peripherals, gone like they never existed. 

Nico, next to him, has his mouth still open around his interrupted sentence, the words stuck in place. His pupils dart between Marti’s, only animating his already sparkly eyes.

“Yeah,” Marti prompts on, his voice dry in disbelief. He says it low, slow, just to Nico: “We split a chocolate cookie, and I thought I would get pregnant if you kissed me. We went outside for our honeymoon.”

Fili and the circle shuffle, clear their throats — go back to chattering as they stumble into a new, forced topic and turn slightly away, reading the situation well. Or maybe it’s written all over their faces.

Marti almost forgot they were there.

They just smile at each other for a minute, looking down and then meeting gazes again.

God, he is cute. Cuter on a second glance and cuter still with each one following. Green eyes that are almost brown and hair so black that it’s almost blue. Pointy features everywhere — his nose, his chin, his jaw, and even his smile. Somewhere between an elf and a Roman god chiseled from marble by Michelangelo himself. He looks nothing like Gio in the best possible way, and Marti’s heart stutters not at the comparisons but at all the difference. Stutters again because it’s confused, like the pulse keeping him alive can’t quite believe the cause.

“So, first crush?” Marti tips his chin up, a little proud. 

“Oh,” Nico hangs his head, shaking it in faux shame and with it maybe some surprise. He recovers well. “It was _bad,”_ he emphasizes. “For the longest time I had to shoo away all of the girls on the playground because I was _married_ — that’s a big deal!” He dips his chin to the side and looks up at Marti through his lashes. 

He is devastating. Not the puppy Marti remembers.

“I thought you were going to come back, you know,” he continues. “Like I was some old woman by the abandoned lighthouse every sunset waiting for her long lost lover at sea.” He practically sings it, chin tipping up and the curls by his temples bouncing with his wobbly head.

Marti laughs, looks down because he’s having trouble looking at him for too long. “Well, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” 

“You know the next day I knocked on every single door in that building looking for you?” Nico shakes his head, chuckling. “What happened?”

“I moved,” Marti explains, shoulders slumping and face softening into reason. He never did get a chance to say goodbye, now that he recalls. “The very next day — mom was packing and I think she was annoyed with me. So she sent me off to visit a friend downstairs, only he wasn’t there.”

Nico exhales through his nose, lifts his face up fully. “Lucky me.”

“Took me almost your whole story to bring that memory back,” Marti half lies. He’s not giving the orange juice the credit it deserves, not giving Nico’s parallel understanding — the root of it all — enough praise. But something tells him he has a lot of time left to fill Nico in.

“Good thing I never forgot,” Nico hums, wiggling his head with the air of _and I thought of it every day_ lingering behind unsaid. “I mean, now I don’t have to think of a cheesy pick-up line.”

That makes Marti giggle. “Cheesy pick-up line?”

“Oh, yes,” Nico scoffs at himself, grateful and relieved. “Look at this text Fili sent me.” He reaches into his pocket for his phone and opens their chat.

> **FILIPPO:**  
🚨🚨🚨  
bringing cute single friend for you to cheer you up

Marti smiles at the screen before looking up and over to their circle, which has shuffled farther away from them. It only takes a second for Fili to check in their direction — something Marti thinks he’s been doing since they’ve interacted — and he winks when he catches Marti’s eye.

“Your nose still looks just as kissable, by the way.”

Marti’s head snaps back to Nico so fast he’s afraid it gave him whiplash. He can’t help the grin that takes over his face — brazen and big and uninhibited but not obliviously so. He lets it. “Is that your cheesy pick-up line?”

“I guess so,” Nico shrugs, bites his bottom lip. Marti wonders if he tries to be this crushing, or if it comes natural to him. “Though it wouldn’t have worked if I hadn’t already kissed it once before.”

Marti raises his eyebrows, brave. He’s surprised how brave he feels, actually, but something about Nico — maybe it’s his easiness, his charm, the fact Marti has already met him once before or the fact he was the first person to truly understand him — brings that bravery out unforced, natural. 

A hidden part of Marti is being unpacked, he realizes. A part that maybe only Nico — or only what Nico can offer him — has the key to unlock.

“Ah, tempted?” Marti jokes. Kind of.

“Well,” Nico looks down, and Marti thinks his cheeks go pink. Maybe he’s not usually this brave either. “It’s been,” he squints one eye, thinking, “over ten years now since I’ve kissed my husband.”

Marti’s stomach backflips, churning his blood hot and quick up to his face.

“You know, I’ve learned a lot in those ten plus years,” Marti states, almost smug. His lips pinch at the corners, one eyebrow rises higher than the other.

“Have you,” Nico chuckles, less of a question.

“Like, did you know,” Marti continues, mock-patronizing, “that kissing, in fact, does not make you pregnant?”

Nico puts a hand to his heart, his mouth gapes on a shocked inhale. “No,” he breathes out, looking around before back to Marti. “I had no idea.” He’s barely able to finish his sentence without laughing, bouncy shoulders and all. “So we’re safe, then?”

It sounds like an invitation. A vague one, just a toe in the water to gauge a reaction.

But Marti’s been so starved for that understanding, to feel it fully with another in all parts equal — he’s ready to jump into the deep end with him, hands clasped. A bit crazy, he knows, but if the water is cold at least he’s not alone.

“Yeah,” he swallows, suddenly nervous when Nico takes a half step closer. “We’re safe.”

When Nico leans in, Marti meets him halfway. Unplanned like they’re magnets.

Not his first kiss, but it sure feels like it. What with the way his heart is hammering, his ears are ringing, his skin is itching and his breathing halts before he remembers to exhale.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

A hand comes up to rest softly on his face, the other to join when Marti preens into the touch. They’re dry, a bit rough. Maker’s hands, or musician’s hands. Marti can’t wait to learn.

Nico’s lips on his feel like all he’s ever wanted. He smiles over them and between them when, after a moment it’s absolutely clear that this is happening, that this feels right, Nico turns his head to kiss him again from the opposite angle. A whispered hum of excitement in that breath of space.

Marti feels him sigh into it when his own smile grows, a kiss ten years awaited. There might be gaps in Marti’s memory, but he feels it too. That he’s waited for this.

In a way, he has.

Things aren’t perfect, and this is just the very beginning.

But in this moment, he’s happy — no.

Ecstatic.

**Author's Note:**

> I… don’t know what this is. Or if it makes any sense. And in my head it’s a lot longer and much more is explored. But I wrote a lot of this a while ago and gave up. Came back to it. Gave up again, etc. If I didn’t wrap it up the way I did, I would have never finished it. So I thought sharing what I’m able to give rn is better than nothing. As always, your thoughts are appreciated. Hope you enjoyed 💛
> 
> Talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


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